


His Hand is Raised, A Sword to Pierce the Sun

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Fantasy, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 02:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: Bilbo Baggins, scion of the most powerful house in the Shire, is sent to the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and in a matter of days finds himself the Herald of Andraste. Commander Thorin Oakenshield of the Inquisition does not start out impressed.Or: five scenes in which Bilbo and Thorin grow to be friends, and one where they are more.





	His Hand is Raised, A Sword to Pierce the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gloomier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/gifts).



> Gloomier, I hope you enjoy this! ~~And I hope by video games being included in your list that Dragon Age is one you know about ksjdhfksdjf~~
> 
> Thanks to the mods for organising this event and also being super patient with me orz
> 
> Thanks to my betas and cheerleaders, whose names will be placed here once the works are revealed.
> 
>  
> 
> Title taken from the Canticle of Victoria:  
>  _Now her hand is raised,_  
>  A sword to pierce the sun  
> With iron shield she defends the faithful  
> Let chaos be undone

**1.**

When Bilbo came to, he was kneeling in a surprisingly clean dungeon, his hands shackled in front of him. A little overkill since he was too dizzy to even contemplate attacking anyone, even if his left hand wasn’t weirdly numb. At least the people who had captured him had done their research on Hobbits, as they’d also bound his feet with coarse rope.

 

Additionally, there were at least seven swords pointed in his direction as well as three crossbows. Really not taking any chances.

 

Bilbo let his eyes slip closed again, trying to push away his headache for the time being. Where was he? What had happened? What had he done?

 

“Come along, Halfling, now’s not the time for play-acting. I know you’re awake.” There came the sound of a short blade being unsheathed. “I only need answers.”

 

“So ask your questions.” He didn’t open his eyes in the hopes that this stranger would venture close and discover how capable he was even restrained. They’d removed the obvious magical trinkets and his visible weapons, but those hidden in the folds of his clothes and within his golden-brown hair? He was willing to bet his roast chicken recipe that they were all still in place.

 

“What were you doing at the Conclave?”

 

Ah, yes. He was in Haven. “Just overseeing the food delivery.”

 

His captor snorted. “The heir to the Baggins family doing something so menial? I think not.”

 

Trying to keep his expression straight, Bilbo cursed inwardly. How had they found that out so quickly? Most spy networks did not find the Shire easily penetrable; just where had these people gotten their information? “I was overseeing, not carrying the sacks of potatoes on my back.”

 

“Aren’t your lands famous for their tomatoes?”

 

“Aye. But you don’t keep those in sacks.” What travesty.

 

“Hmm.” There came the sound of a knife scraping against leather. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

 

“Why not? If you place tomatoes in anything but boxes they’ll bruise and –”

 

“That’s not what I meant.” Rather than sounding annoyed, his captor seemed bored. “Now, Master Baggins, shall we try again?”

 

“I think we should try something new,” came a new voice, this one deeper and far more commanding. “Your way is not working, Nori.”

 

The first voice – Nori apparently – made a _tch_ sound. “You said you’d give me ten minutes.”

 

Ten minutes? That was insulting. It would take far more than that for him to break – his mother’s training had seen to that.

 

“We do not have ten minutes.”

 

Bilbo listened to the second person approach; their boots and tread were heavy, so he assumed they were a Dwarf. From the sound of it they had been trained in Orzammar, which meant they’d likely been cast out onto the surface. He wondered what for, and how they’d risen in the ranks of the Chantry to their current higher-than-interrogator-Nori status.

 

He opened his eyes when they kneeled in front of him.

 

The pale blues before him were altogether unexpected, both in their captivating colour and their icy disdain. The Dwarf’s face was incredibly handsome, the nose in particular sharp and straight, _very_ attractive. Their long, dark hair was streaked through with silver, and silver was also present in the clasps and beads they wore to hold their braids. Unusually for any Dwarf, this one’s beard was shorn.

 

“So,” the Dwarf said, one thick eyebrow raised. “This is the Hobbit.”

 

  
**2.**

There were search parties, of course. Not just for _him_ – there were people who had not been buried by the avalanche but were hindered by it, those who had fallen behind, those who had wandered away. But Thorin still had hope. That hope was why he volunteered for every other search mission. He told others it was to stretch his legs, to stop himself from losing his mind. Maybe that was true as well.

 

Tonight he was on watch rather than scouting – after twisting his ankle, a minor injury, Dwalin had forbidden him from venturing far from the camp. Everything was quiet. Quiet as it could be with the howling winds and the howling wolves.

 

(He recalled the early days when the Herald had been nothing more than a surprisingly dangerous Halfling apparently responsible for murdering countless people. That seemed an age ago.)

 

They risked a fire to heat up stew sent from the camp. Whoever had cooked it had made do with the supplies the Inquisition had, so it was little more than a mix of vegetables. You were lucky if you managed to dig out a piece of sausage within the mess of carrots, potatoes, beans, and peas. If you were unlucky – and this particular watch was – you’d end up with mush that had a painful lack of salt.

 

He wouldn’t complain, because grabbing herbs and spices was not a priority when fleeing from an army led by a monster, but Thorin was of the opinion that a good meal was a morale booster like no other, considering its simplicity.

 

Soon after they returned to the bulk of the Inquisition. It wasn’t much of a distance, as they’d been just past the small crevasse between the open and the camp. If they were attacked, at least there was a choke point to control the battle. But even being found by the enemy was speculation and not very likely speculation at that.

 

Dwalin joined him. “It’s been days.”

 

His jaw clenched. “I know the Hobbit is not coming back. He’s defied death too many times.” His eyes focused on a point over the fire, watching sparks wither away into nothing. “But I can’t help…”

 

“Wishing that he’d do it one more time?”

 

He looked away, telling himself not to snap at Dwalin for stating the truth. He was no stranger to extraordinary people and their extraordinary feats – his brother had personally known the Hero of Ferelden and his sister was the Champion of Kirkwall. Was it too much to hope that the Herald of Andraste would survive the impossible?

 

Before he could think of a reply, Thorin glanced back. For a moment, he thought blind hope had supplied the apparition before him. But it was real; he recognised the armour first and then he saw Bilbo’s exhausted face and, “There! It’s him!”

 

When he fell to his knees, his heart stopped and he jolted into a run. Snow was not the most conducive terrain for a Dwarf, much less one that had managed to injure his ankle, but Thorin was the first to reach the Herald’s side. Without thinking he’d already scooped the Hobbit into his arms, careful not to jostle him too much. (He seemed to be favouring his side, implying a rib injury, but who knew what else lurked beneath his armour?)

 

“You’re safe,” Thorin murmured, making his way to the healing tents. “I’ve got you, Herald, you’re safe.”

 

It was impossible to be sure, given the way the Hobbit’s teeth were audibly chattering, but he thought he saw the glimmer of a smile.

 

 

**3.**

Bilbo was slowly going crazy.

 

Leave aside the fact that there were an alarming amount of people who thought he was some kind of messenger for Andraste – not true at all, because She surely had better choices for such things. And leave aside the fact that even more people thought he was suitable to lead an entire Inquisition. And most definitely leave aside the fact that he held the power to seal rifts in his left palm.

 

Leave aside all that, and consider that he was bed bound for at least another week.

 

The enemy had been correct in their deduction that a Hobbit would not wear protective boots even in the blistering cold of Emprise du Lion – the mere thought of covering his feet was still shudder-inducing, despite the still healing ring of skin around his ankle – and the trap they had laid had been very well hidden. Bilbo had literally walked right into it and it had only been Fíli’s hunting experience and Tauriel’s healing that had saved his foot from being completely severed.

 

There had been poison on the trap, though, and that had delayed his healing.

 

On the plus side, in his fury Nori had pushed for better trap detection amongst his scouts and even found a way of utilising the Red Templars’ spell for the Inquisition’s purposes. Bilbo didn’t know the exact details since he was still healing and ‘needn’t worry his pretty little head’, but suffice to say the spymaster was honestly terrifying in his creativity.

 

At any rate, being cooped up in his quarters was maddening. He couldn’t even climb down from the balcony and escape since his weak ankle would lead to a terrible tumble and a premature death. (The mark on his hand would be of no help; what was he going to do, open a rift into the Fade and fall through it? How ridiculous.)

 

When he heard the door open, Bilbo was half tempted to feign sleepiness, just in case it was another exhausting visit from Glóin about how irresponsible he was with the Inquisition’s coffers. When he saw Thorin’s head hove into view as he climbed the stairs, he dashed that plan happily.

 

“You’re not here to discuss troop movements, are you?”

 

“I am aware of your failings in such matters,” Thorin commented dryly. “I thought we might play some Wicked Grace.”

 

Bilbo patted the bed, inviting the Commander to sit. “Not chess?”

 

“I’m in the middle of a game with Tauriel.” It was heartening to see that there was no longer any suspicion lacing Thorin’s voice as he spoke of the Tevinter mage – they were probably bonding over said chess games. This was good, because Bilbo considered Tauriel a close friend and enjoyed her company. He enjoyed Thorin’s company as well. “I’m winning, which just shows I don’t need more practice at it.”

 

“And the same can’t be said of your prowess with Wicked Grace,” Bilbo said knowingly. He laughed at the sour expression this elicited. “Am I wrong? Was it not you who lost your trousers the last time you played with Ori?”

 

“Where did you hear that?” Thorin asked, voice full of dismay. He took a seat, frown creasing his forehead. “It was Dwalin, wasn’t it.”

 

“No,” Bilbo sing-songed, because it hadn’t been. But he wasn’t about to allow his source to get into trouble. “So are we setting similar stakes for our game? I should like to see the view for myself.”

 

It was immensely pleasing to watch the Dwarf colour and splutter. 

 

 

**4.**

“I still think you could’ve gotten away with letting Thranduil be killed.”

 

Bilbo was able to spare Thorin half a smile, though he kept his gaze on the garden below. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you’re encouraging regicide.”

 

“Not encouraging, just pointing out that such tactics are a norm.” He expected this to elicit a snort at least – though in retrospect it might’ve been too morbid a joke – but Bilbo didn’t even react. His hazel eyes were faraway and unseeing.

 

Ori had insisted that the Inquisitor change back into his formal attire since ‘demon blood does not behove a ballroom, no matter what the Orlesians may claim as their latest fancy’. His was a variation on the Inquisition’s dress uniform; blue and yellow in deference to his Shire heritage, with silk brocade of Elvish make alongside samite from Tevinter, the flowers embroidered in silver and gold thread imported from Orzammar. Thorin thought he looked beautiful, especially in the moonlight – but he also looked sad.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, unsure if he was overstepping.

 

Bilbo finally looked up at him. He was leaning on the balcony railing, which came up to his chest. “Just a bit tired from rooting out assassins from the myriad wings in this place.” A short, sharp sigh. “And yourself?”

 

“Everything is under control, thanks to you.” And Thranduil not being _that_ much of an idiot and understanding the necessity of more Inquisition soldiers around the palace. “Given how these things go we’ll not be able to leave for some hours yet, though at least they’ll be quiet.” Relatively quiet, since there was a reason Orlesians were rarely bored.

 

“I’ll… stay out here for those hours, then.”

 

Thorin felt a twinge of sympathy in his chest and tried to find the right words. He was not the best at being comforting – especially when it came to Bilbo, considering their early relationship and Thorin’s ability to put his foot in his mouth – and so when familiar music wafted out from the ballroom, he jumped at the opportunity.

 

“Well then you can’t escape from this dance, then,” he said, offering his hand in a pose drilled into him in years of protocol lessons. “I promise I shan’t step on your toes.”

 

“Dwarves dance?” Bilbo teased, though he didn’t hesitate to place his hand in Thorin’s.

 

“I’d say we dance better than Hobbits.”

 

Bilbo’s laugh was as clear as a bell and exactly what Thorin wanted to hear ~~for the rest of his life~~. “You’re going to have to prove that, Commander.”

 

“Gladly, Inquisitor.”

 

 

**5.**

“You’re avoiding me.”

 

Bilbo affected an air of disinterest, as if he hadn’t been caught out. He’d been so good with being aware of anyone approaching and subsequently absconding before he was cornered. He may have been forced to use a couple of smoke bombs but that was in the pursuit of absolutely avoiding confronting what had happened in the Fade.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, as if he hadn’t just spent too long internally panicking.

 

“You’d think it was your brother that had –”

 

“ _Don’t say it_ ,” Bilbo interrupted, his voice breaking. He didn’t even know what words Thorin would have chosen – whether he’d say that Frerin had stayed behind, or that he’d sacrificed himself, or that he’d been forced to stay, or…

 

Or that Bilbo had left him to die.

 

When Thorin grabbed his shoulder, Bilbo let himself be turned. He avoided the pale blue eyes because he wouldn’t be able to stand catching sight of the disappointment within. He didn’t know what he’d do if he saw hate there as well. A lot of things had changed since that day when the Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed, but if Thorin went back to treating Bilbo like an untrustworthy criminal…

 

“No one blames you, Bilbo.”

 

He laughed. “A lie.” Because even if no one else blamed him – extremely unlikely – Bilbo certainly did.

 

Thorin’s sigh ruffled the curls on Bilbo’s forehead. “You forget my sister was there with you. She knows what she saw, she knows what happened. I trust her.” He curled a finger under Bilbo’s chin, tipping his face up. “More than that, I trust your judgement.”

 

“You shouldn’t.” He couldn’t actually see Thorin’s face since his vision was blurred. “No one should. Why was I given this title when I can’t even save one person –”

 

“You saved countless people just by coming back.”

 

“Debatable,” Bilbo scoffed. He was the target of Smaug’s wrath; if he wasn’t in the picture, then the blighted dragon would not go to such lengths of death and destruction just to get to him. And there was no guarantee that Bilbo would be able to defeat him in the end – though, if he _was_ able to defeat Smaug, why couldn’t he do something so simple as find a way to escape the Fade with _both_ of Thorin’s siblings?

 

“I know my brother. I know he is – he was brave and strong. He would have insisted on staying so you would have a chance of returning and saving us. It is not your fault.”

 

“It _is_ my fault.” Bilbo ground his teeth together. “I didn’t consider his willingness to stay, even if it was there. I asked him to stay because I didn’t want to leave Dís there.”

 

Thorin stayed silent. Bilbo let his gaze fall as the tears did.

 

“I love them both but Dís has children. I couldn’t – Fíli and Kíli still need her, and Víli too, and that’s why I made that decision. I should never have the power to decide between life and death but I do and I made it. I asked your brother to die for me and he did!” He covered his face. “Why don’t you hate me?”

 

“I am not… happy that Frerin is no longer here.” An understatement, because Bilbo had seen Thorin’s expression at Adamant when he’d realised how Bilbo’s party had been reduced when they’d returned from the Fade and just who hadn’t come through – it was a big reason why he’d been avoiding everyone. “And you are right that you shouldn’t have to make such decisions – but the fact remains that those decisions _must_ be made, and I trust you to make them.”

 

Bilbo just shook his head. He didn’t bother trying to speak, since his chest was fluttering as he tried to gasp in breaths and even coming up with appropriate words was difficult, much less saying them out loud.

 

Thorin’s hands were warm and calloused as they cupped Bilbo’s face. He was gentle, far too gentle, more gentle than Bilbo deserved, using his thumbs to swipe away tears. “I understand the responsibilities you have to face. When…” He sighed. “When I was King, often the needs of my people came before that of my family or myself. Smaug is a greater threat than anything this world has faced and we will lose people we care about. Take heart that Frerin died fighting for what he believed in. Take heart that he believed in you.”

 

He should have disputed this. He should have shouted at Thorin, told him he was absolutely wrong, insisted that Thorin hate him because _that made sense_. But he was tired and his heart was full of hope and he was desperate for the absolution so freely offered.

 

In any case, he was robbed of any urge to protest when Thorin leaned forward and pressed his lips to his forehead.

 

“You have the weight of Thedas on your shoulders, Bilbo. But you do not have to carry it alone.”

 

 

**+1**

Everyone knew Bilbo had succeeded. It was difficult to miss the massive explosion in the sky, the sudden lack of the Breach, the bulk of the Venatori turning tail and escaping. There were still some that stayed their ground and fought, not to mention the demons (though at least those were no longer endlessly spawning), so Thorin had to keep where he was instead of going where he wanted to.

 

He’d lost his shield some time ago. As a result he’d been unable to block the blow to his face, but at least he’d been quick enough that it’d result in a nasty scar rather than the loss of an eye. Thorin had lost count a long time ago how many enemies he’d cut down – how many soldiers he’d already lost – and he didn’t know how long more things went on until suddenly… it was over.

 

It was over.

 

Thorin was barely patient enough to listen to the report from the nearest lieutenant before he was making his way back to Skyhold. If there was to be any solid news of ~~Bilbo~~ the battle, it would be found there.

 

He needn’t have rushed, as it turned out. Those who had gone to the Temple of Sacred Ashes had not arrived yet. If Thorin had moved slower and put less stress on his stabbed-through foot then he wouldn’t be in this situation, anxious for news as Ori forced him into clean and undamaged armour.

 

“We need to present a strong front,” he’d said, pressing a bottle of elfroot extract into Thorin’s hand as a servant helped with his bracers. “Nori’s troubled too, but he has to wait just as you do.” He’d swallowed, looking pale under his freckles, the broken halves of his slingshot jammed into its holster. “B – the Inquisitor will be fine, you’ll see.”

 

And miraculously, impossibly, against all odds – Bilbo was.

 

There was blood under one pointed ear, out of reach of a quick wipe down, and most of his armour had been removed. Good. It would only have restricted his movements. He didn’t wince as he climbed the stairs towards them but one hand was pressed to his side – broken ribs?

 

There was no power in Thedas to stop him from taking Bilbo into his arms. He tried to be gentle but the Hobbit had no such qualms, gripping him tightly and pressing against his armour with nary a care. His prayers hadn’t been in vain, Andraste had listened, Bilbo was here and alive and –

 

Oh, fuck this. Thorin pulled back, catching sight of surprise before he swooped down and finally, kissed Bilbo.

 

The cheering was louder now – a particularly loud hooting coming from the direction of his family, he was sure – but Thorin didn’t care. There was no reason to care because he had Bilbo in his arms and Bilbo hadn’t pushed him away. He was kissing Bilbo and Bilbo was kissing him back. The enemy was defeated and they still had much work to do but the most important thing in his world was here in his arms and safe and he was never going to let go.


End file.
